Mrs. Sullivan?”
Tova opens her trunk, preparing to start her shift, when a short man waving a manila envelope comes jogging across the Sowell Bay Aquarium’s parking lot, weaving around the typical handful of cars belonging to the evening fishermen and the day’s last joggers. Recognizable Sowell Bay vehicles, most of them. Somehow, Tova hadn’t even noticed the unfamiliar gray sedan from which this fellow just burst forth.
“Tova Sullivan?” he hollers again, approaching.
She slams the hatchback shut. “May I help you?”
“Glad I finally found you!” he says, panting. As he catches his breath, he flashes a smile too large for his face, with oversized white teeth. They remind Tova of the bleached barnacles that cling to seaweed-strewn boulders down at the sound’s edge.
He continues, “You’re not an easy lady to track down, you know.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your address had my GPS going in circles, and your home phone just rings, no voice mail. Thought I was going to need a private investigator.”
Warmth creeps up Tova’s neck at the suggestion that she might’ve allowed her answering machine to remain full, exacerbated by the fact that the accusation is basically true. But her voice is even when she says, “An investigator?”
“It happens more often than you’d think.” He shakes his head, then extends his hand. “Bruce LaRue. I’m an attorney for the estate of Lars Lindgren.”
“How do you do.”
“First of all, please let me say, I’m sorry for your loss.” His tone doesn’t sound particularly sorry.
“We were not close,” Tova explains. Again.
“Right . . . I won’t take up too much of your time, then, but I needed to get this to you.” He thrusts the envelope at Tova. “Your brother had some personal assets, as you probably know.”
“Mr. LaRue, I have no knowledge of what my brother did or did not have.” She slides a finger under the seal on the envelope and peeks inside. It’s a document, a list of some sort, on Charter Village letterhead.
“Well, now you know. We’ll need to get together at some point to sort out the monetary assets, but for now, that’s a list of his belongings. Just a few personal items.”
“I see.” Tova tucks the envelope under her arm.
“You can give them a call and let them know when you’ll swing by to pick everything up.”
“Swing by? Charter Village is all the way up in Bellingham. That’s an hour away.”
LaRue shrugs. “Look, go get the stuff, or don’t. They’ll get rid of it after some time if no one shows up.”
If no one shows up. To Tova’s knowledge, Lars never remarried after he and Denise split, but she’s always supposed he must’ve had a sweetheart or two. A close friend, at least. Isn’t that part of the reason people move to those homes? For the social scene? But this LaRue fellow seems to be implying that no one had shown up for Lars. Had ever shown up for him, maybe. Had he died in the company of some bored nurse? An aide counting the hours until shift’s end?
“I will go,” she says quietly.
“Great. Then my work here is done, for now. I’ll be in touch.” LaRue flashes his grin again. “Any questions?”
A great many questions swirl in Tova’s mind, but the one that tumbles out is “How exactly did you find me here?”
“Ah, a very friendly cashier up at that grocery store on the hill. I stopped in for a coffee, having failed to find you at your home address, and when we got to chatting, he mentioned you’d be down here. Nice guy. Talks with a heavy accent, like a leprechaun?”
Tova sighs. Ethan.
BY SOME SERENDIPITY, the aquarium is in decent shape tonight. No dried chewing gum to battle. Nothing sticky in the trash cans. No unspeakable bathroom messes.
And, thankfully, everyone seems to be in their proper tank.
“I see you back there.” The glass front of the octopus exhibit is smattered with greasy fingerprints, which Tova sprays and erases with her rag, while the creature stares at her from one of the upper corners. She’s now accustomed to finding his exhibit empty, seeing him instead with the sea cucumbers next door, which seem to be his preferred snack. Tova can’t say she approves, but it makes her smile. Their secret.
He unfurls his arms and floats toward the front glass, never breaking his gaze.
“Not hungry tonight, are we?” He blinks.
“An hour. On the freeway,” she mutters, leaning closer to scrub at a stubborn spot on the glass. “I don’t care for driving on the freeway, you know.”
In his slow, almost prehistoric way, the octopus attaches an arm to the inside of the tank and draws his body closer. His suckers look bluish purple tonight, clinging to the glass.
She wrings her rag. “And I don’t care for those homes, either. Retirement homes, nursing homes . . . all the same,
aren’t they? Always smell like sick people.”
Eye gleaming like some otherworldly marble, the octopus follows her every move as she folds the rag and tucks it away.
Tova leans on the cart. “Lars always left messes. And now he’s left one last thing for me to clean up, even after he’s died. His life was always a bit disorganized. Mind you, that wasn’t why we stopped speaking. No, that wasn’t the reason.”
She tuts at herself. What is she doing, talking to this octopus? Not that she doesn’t always say hello to the creatures here, as fond of them as she is, but this is different. This is talking. But, good heavens, if it doesn’t feel like the creature is actually listening.
Of all the impossible things.
And anyway. There was no reason. Nothing, really.
“Well, good night, sir.” Tova gives the octopus a polite nod, then moves along.
At the seahorse exhibit, there’s a handwritten sign taped to the glass. Tova recognizes Terry’s scrawl: MATING! GIVE THEM
SPACE!
“Oh!” Tova clasps a hand to her chest, peering cautiously around the paper. Is it that time again?
Last year, Terry threw a little “baby shower” for the entire staff, all eight of them, when the seahorses spawned. Mackenzie had stayed after her admissions shift to blow up balloons and paint a banner that read GIDDY-UP, LITTLE COWBOYS! Dr. Santiago, the veterinarian, had dropped by with a cake that read, in cursive icing: HIP-HIP-HOORAY FOR HIPPOCAMPUS BABIES! Generally, Tova avoids parties, but that cake had drawn intrigue. During Erik’s sophomore year, he made a posterboard project for honors biology on the hippocampus of the human brain. He devoted a whole panel to the etymology of the term, its derivation from ancient Greek, its shared meaning with the scientific term for the seahorse genus, and its mythological connection to sea monsters.
Maybe we all have sea monsters living in our brains, Erik joked as he pasted chunks of paper onto the posterboard on their dining room table.
Anyway, if Terry and Mackenzie had planned to repeat the gesture this year, it would be well underway. Tova hasn’t heard of it, although she’s sure they’d never exclude her. Not intentionally.
If a celebration does happen, she supposes she’ll see the mess afterward. It’s absurd anyway. That’s what the Knit- Wits said last year, when she told them of it.
Perhaps she’s the only person on earth who thinks hippocampus babies are more exciting than human ones.
ETHAN IS WIPING down the Shop-Way register when she enters. He beams at her. “Tova!”
The shopping baskets sit in a neat pile next to the newspaper stand, but Tova marches right past them, past the short row of nested carts, too, directly to the register. She’s not here to shop.
“Good evening, Ethan.”
His face starts to flush. Within moments, it’s nearly as red as his beard.
“I have just had a visitor at my place of employment. Do you know anything about that?”
“Aye, the bloke with the muckle teeth.” Ethan folds his rag and tucks it in his apron pocket, looking sheepish. “I wouldn’t have told him if he hadn’t said it was important. Your brother’s estate and all.”
Tova clucks her tongue. “Estate. Is that what he told you?”
“Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t want an estate?”
Tova sighs. Is there any local drama into which Ethan is not champing at the bit to insert himself? Stiffly, she continues, “Apparently, my brother left some personal effects in the nursing home where he died. Nothing worthwhile, I’m certain, but now I must go retrieve them.”
Ethan looks genuinely contrite, regret clouding his wide green eyes. “Bloody hell, Tova. I’m sorry.”
“It’s at least an hour’s drive.”
“Aye, bit of a haul,” he says, picking at a callus on his thumb.
Tova inspects her sneakers. She is not in the habit of asking for help, but Ethan had seemed genuine in his offer, and the thought of two hours on the freeway makes her uneasy. “I should like to take you up on your offer.”
“Offer?” Ethan looks up, his voice a touch brighter.
“Yes. If I need anything at all, you said. Well, there is something.”
“Anything, love. What do you need?”
Tova swallows hard. “A ride to Bellingham.”
